He twitched in surprise. She’d called him Six, like he’d named her Seven. What were the odds of two minds thinking alike? “Hi, Seven.” He stole a glance at her. She smiled at him. His stomach made a trip around the curviest section of a roller coast. Her smile lit up her entire face. Hell, the entire room.
Maybe jury duty wasn’t so bad.
* * * * *
Rena gave herself silent orders. Do not let the fact that you had the courage to speak to him distract you from the trial. This is someone’s life. Someone’s facing prison. Your ridiculous fantasies need to be put on the shelf for once, and you need to be present in what’s actually happening.
D.A. LaRue paced in front of them. “This is a simple case. An open and shut case. The defendant was caught on camera robbing the abused women’s shelter of presents. Gifts collected from the community that were meant for underprivileged children. He is not a hero, as the defense may have you believe. He’s a common criminal. One who steals from children. We have the surveillance tape to prove it.”
The defense attorney, Carson, hovered close to the jury box. Rena spotted a smudge the size of a thumb on his glasses. “This case is not open and shut. It’s not even a typical case of breaking and entering or robbery in the second degree. This case is about the spirit of Christmas and one man’s way of contributing to those in need. We have no doubt that you’ll find his methods strange. But John Smith is no ordinary man. He is a dreamer—a man who follows his own set of rules. We will not contest that John Smith was there the night of the robbery. We will not contest that he did indeed take the presents under the tree. But the reasons for his actions are altruistic in nature. Perhaps his methods are rogue, but does that matter?
John Smith grew up in an orphanage. He didn’t have presents or a tree or sweets. This little boy who often went to bed hungry, and dreamt of a day when no child would ever have to endure a cold and empty Christmas. He vowed that when he was grown, he would become rich—rich enough to provide presents for all needy children. John Smith was not at the shelter that night to take presents, but to leave the children exactly what they had asked for. You will hear his story. He will share how and why he decided to exchange the gifts under the tree for new ones. I’m asking from you, ladies and gentlemen, to put aside what you think you know about a man like John Smith—to suspend your belief for a moment to consider: is this man a criminal or a hero? Could he be the essence of what Christmas is all about?”
LaRue called the director of the women’s shelter, Carol Watson, as their first witness. The district attorney asked her to repeat her name and tell them what she did at the shelter before launching into the real questions. “Were you at work the night of December twenty-first of last year?
“Yes. I was in my office working late. We had several new women staying with us, and I needed to take care of their paperwork. I was almost done for the night when I heard a crash coming from the direction of the main room.”
“What time was this?”
“Around ten p.m.”
“Then what happened?”
“I turned to look at the security feed on the computer. A man, wearing a red Santa suit, was over by the Christmas tree. He was stuffing the presents we’d collected for the children into a big black bag.”
“What did you do?”
“I was afraid to go out there for fear he’d hurt me, so I called 911. The dispatcher communicated with the police and told me they were on their way.”
“What was happening on the screen while you were on the phone?” LaRue asked.
“I’m not sure because his large red bottom was blocking the camera. Then, he turned, as if he sensed I was watching him, and looked right into the camera and winked.”
“He winked?”
“Yes. Next thing I saw was a blank screen. I don’t know why, but the camera went out.”
LaRue handed the court reporter a paper as Exhibit A. She pulled a cart holding a large computer screen closer to the jury. “Jury, please take a close look at this tape.” Seconds later, the exact scene the witness had described played out on the screen. LaRue turned back to her Watson. “Is the man on this tape the defendant?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Can you point to him?” LaRue asked.
“Right there.” Watson pointed at John Smith. He grinned at her.
Rena swallowed. John Smith was insane. They should have pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity.
“What happened when the police came?” LaRue asked.
“They examined the scene and, you know, did all the stuff they do. I believe they searched for him, but he was gone. It was like he vanished into thin air.”
“I have nothing further, Your Honor,” said LaRue.
Rena scribbled into the notepad they’d given her. How did he get away so fast? What happened to the camera? Why did it suddenly turn off?
Carson approached the podium. “When you arrived at the scene of the alleged crime, what did you find?”
The director clasped her hands together. “The presents we had collected were gone. In their place were different ones. Presents with plain red paper and white bows.”
“And were there toys inside these new boxes?”
“Yes.”
“Were the names of the children staying at the shelter on them, or were the nametags generic like the first boxes? For example, boy, 12 to 14.”
“No, these had the children’s names on them.” The witness fidgeted in the chair and clasped and unclasped her hands. “When we opened the boxes, expecting that they would be empty, they weren’t. My assistant recognized the toys as those asked for in the letters to Santa we’d written with the kids the week before.”
“So the gifts had been replaced by these new ones the children had asked for in their letters to Santa?”
“That’s correct.”
“Nothing further, Your Honor.”
* * * * *
The space between Ryan’s ears buzzed. The morning’s testimony had him baffled. Why would the old man exchange the gifts? What happened to the first gifts? His stomach growled. Lunchtime couldn’t have come soon enough. He followed the other jurors out into the lobby toward the elevator. Seven veered from the crowd. She was taking the stairs. Stairs were a viable option. Probably faster. He might have the courage to speak with her if they were alone. Strike up a conversation. She’d smiled at him. Even if she thought he was an old, boring dad, she was obviously friendly. What the heck. He would follow her. No reason to wait for the elevator. He’d missed his daily workout because of jury duty, after all.
Five steps ahead of him by the time he entered the stairwell, Seven glanced back at him. She shot him a shy smile and slowed her pace. He increased his until he was a step behind her.
“Hey, Seven.”
“Hi again, Six.”
“I hope this doesn’t seem weird, but do I know you from somewhere?” Please don’t think that’s a cheesy pickup line.
“Sort of. We see each other almost every day,” she said.
“We do?” What did she mean? Every day? Impossible. He would have noticed her.
“I work in the Chase building.”
“Me too.”
“I know. We almost always ride the escalator up to the second floor together around seven thirty. You come from the parking garage. I come in the Fifth Street entrance because I ride the bus to work. We both stop at the second floor Starbucks. I order a double short latte. You order an Americano with room. You never put any cream in it, and I always wonder why you ask for room.”
“That’s impossible. I would notice you. And I haven’t.”
She smiled as she opened the stairway door to the first floor. “I’m not noticeable to men like you.”
“Why would you say that?” She was noticeable to any man. He was certain of that. Although, if that were true, why hadn’t he?
“I’m not important, which makes me invisible. There’s a hierarchy in our society and our building is a microco
sm of it.”
“This is America, not nineteenth-century England.”
“We’re not always aware of the hierarchy, unless we’re near or at the bottom. And men are almost never on the bottom.”
A woman with opinions. He loved that. Seven was smart. He loved smart. He craved smart. Someone to really talk with about everything and anything.
“Especially ones like you,” she said. Their arms brushed as they walked side by side to the entrance. Had an electric spark just traveled up his arm to his heart?
“Ones like me?” he asked.
“Successful, smart, rich,” she said.
“How do you know that? First impressions aren’t always right.” He followed her into the round door and out onto the icy sidewalk. Jesus, it was cold. He buttoned up his wool coat and pulled on his leather gloves.
“My mother always told me that a person’s shoes could tell you everything you needed to know about them,” she said.
They stopped at a crosswalk. She pointed toward the ground. “Look down at our shoes.”
He wore his black, shiny loafers. Rosie had picked them out for him the last time they went to Saks. Seven wore brown boots. Scruffs marred the leather. She raised one foot. Threadbare soles created a slick surface. She could slip in those things.
“I’ve had these for three seasons now. It’s time for a new pair, but if I want to pay my rent this month, that won’t happen.” She laughed. Her breath made puffs of clouds in the cold air.
The light turned green. They crossed the street, avoiding patches of ice. He wanted to tuck her arm into his to keep her from slipping. In the doorway of a building, a man rang the Salvation Army bell. Seven reached into her pocket and dropped some coins inside.
Wait, he couldn’t let her think he was a rich, selfish bastard. “Hang on.” He pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet and set it inside the ringing Santa’s pot. They continued down a steep street, heading toward Second Avenue. The city had laid bumps in each section of cement for traction. It made for awkward gaits, like toy rocking horses with unreliable springs. Do not take her arm. She hardly knows you.
She slipped. A high-pitched yelp escaped from her small frame. She grabbed onto his upper arm. “Wow. I almost bit it big time.”
“Here. Take my arm. I’ll keep you safe.” He peered down at her, absorbing the view like a salve to parched skin. Pink cheeks flushed from the cold and eyes as bright as the blue sky above them. Alabaster skin, striking against her dark hair. This was a beautiful girl.
“How old-fashioned of you.” She smiled and her eyes twinkled at him. So, this is what they meant by eyes that danced.
“Are you going to send me to the feminist police?” What was wrong with his voice? He hadn’t just sprinted a mile.
“No, I love it.” She held out her arm. He tucked it close to his side.
They walked arm-in-arm down the rest of the steep hill. This girl felt right tucked next to him, like they’d walked together many times before this. How had he not noticed the icicles that hung off the bare branches of the trees earlier? They sparkled under the sunshine.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I’m the office administrator for a sales office. I take care of the daily minutiae of ten salespeople and their technical counterparts. Thus, my old boots.”
“I don’t follow.” An office administrator. What a lucky group of people to get to work with this woman. She was like sunshine on a cloudy day, which God knew they had a lot of in this town.
“I just mean I don’t make much. Not enough to live in this city, anyway. I make ten percent, roughly, of what my salespeople make. I shop at Ross and Albertsons. I live in a studio apartment that’s cold in the winter and hot in the summer. I’m barely above poverty level, especially given the college loans I’m paying off.” She spoke nonchalantly, matter-of-factly, without a hint of self-pity, almost like a professor would describe the current state of America.
He cringed. It was true of his support staff too. From what he knew of them, they all had roommates and college loans.
“Can I buy you lunch?” He suddenly couldn’t imagine walking away without her.
She lifted her chin. When she smiled, dimples appeared on both sides of her face. “No, thank you.” She patted her bag that hugged her slim hip. “I brought a sandwich from home. And I have a book. I was just going to read in the jury room downstairs.”
“Then why have you just risked your life by coming out to the icy sidewalk?”
She laughed and ducked her head. “I don’t know actually. I forgot my plan when we started talking. But please don’t buy me lunch because you feel sorry for me. I shouldn’t have said all that. I hate it when people feel sorry for me.”
“That’s not why I want to buy you lunch.”
“It isn’t?”
“No.” What else did one say? I want to buy you lunch because you’re gorgeous, and I like the feel of you tucked against me, and I want to hear more of your story and listen to your voice that makes me feel all fuzzy in the head. “I’m enjoying talking to you. And I’d like to do more of it.” There. That wasn’t bad. Was it? Did he sound like a creep? He touched the area next to his eyes. Were his crow’s feet visible in the bright light?
“I’m enjoying your company too.” Again, with the smile that rivaled the sunshine.
“Good.” He pointed to an Irish Pub across the street. “Let’s get something warm. That’s so much better than a soggy sandwich from home.”
“Why do you think it’s soggy?” She crinkled up her nose.
“Isn’t it? The ones my mom sent to school were always soggy.” She was adorable with her round face and sweet little mouth that looked like it had never been kissed, but should be. I need to get a grip. I’m way too old for her. She was probably barely over twenty-one. Not a wrinkle or laugh line and there was an innocence about her that reminded him of his high school girlfriend.
She clapped her hands together and laughed. “My mother’s sandwiches were soggy too.” Her hands were red and chapped. This weather and no gloves? Even the homeless lady this morning had gloves. Something was wrong in the world.
“You’ll be doing me a favor.” Even if he was too old for her, at least he could get a good meal in her. “You’ll save me from spending the whole time on my phone obsessing about work.”
“Fine. If it’s a favor to you.” Her dimples were so cute. He’d like to stick his finger in one just to see what they felt like.
* * * * *
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. I’m having lunch with Ryan.
She must stay cool. She must not act like a naive child. She must present sophistication, like she did this all the time. Yeah, sure. She had lunch with handsome men all the time. In her mind, anyway.
They settled into a booth at the back of the cozy pub. A waitress set menus on the tables and scooted away to look after other customers.
“You know, Seven, if we’re going to have lunch together, we should know each other’s real names. I’m Ryan Scott.”
“Rena Burke.” They shook hands across the table. His large, warm hand engulfed her small, cold one. Why hadn’t she noticed how rugged and short her nails were? They looked dirty because of the traces of watercolor paint under the fingernails. Her chapped and rough skin probably felt like an alligator to him. Were alligators rough? It didn’t matter. Stay cool. Breezy.
“Rena Burke. What a beautiful name. It suits you.”
It suited her. What did he mean by that? It was a compliment; she knew that much. She warmed as if someone had just turned on one of those outdoor heaters.
“Thank you. Rena was my grandmother’s name. I never met her, but my mom said she was artistic and funny.” Like me. Her mother had always added that part, but she didn’t want to sound vain. “I already knew your first name,” she said. “The baristas call it out when you pick up your coffee.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re obviously more observant than I am.”
&n
bsp; Did he mean like stalker observant? If he only knew the fantasies she had in her head, he would not have asked her to lunch. “You always seem preoccupied, like you have a lot on your mind,” she said.
“I usually do, which is why I am clearly not aware of my surroundings. To answer your question about my coffee order from earlier—I get my Americano with room because I don’t like it when it spills out of the little hole at the top of the lid.”
“And messes up the cup,” she said. “I hate that too.”
“And gets on your fingers and you smell like stale coffee.”
“Totally. It’s sticky too.”
“Right.” They smiled at each other like they’d just found the antidote to poverty. Oh my god, oh my god. Ryan. Ryan Scott is sitting across from me.
“What do you do on the twenty-sixth floor?” she asked. “I don’t know what companies are up there.”
“What’s your guess?” he asked.
She tilted her head to the side and squinted as if she hadn’t spent hours considering this very thing. “You dress too casually to be an attorney or one of those consultants for the big five or whatever it is. You don’t seem like a programmer or a sales guy, like the ones I work with. I’m guessing something creative.”
He nodded. “Good guess. I’m the owner of an ad agency. I’m the creative guy. My partner gets the business, and I lead the teams that deliver the product.”
“Really? Like Mad Men?”
“A little. Only less drinking and we’re not as handsome,” he said.
“I wouldn’t say that.” Heat traveled to all parts of her body. No need for her coat. Maybe she should bring Ryan home with her. She’d never have to turn on the heat. Ryan in her bed might light the place on fire. “The less handsome part, that is. I can’t weigh in on the drinking.”
The server appeared with waters and asked for their orders. She already knew what she wanted. Fish and chips. She would eat every bite and enjoy that wonderful full feeling all afternoon.
Ryan ordered a cobb salad. Great. She probably looked like a pig. Men weren’t supposed to order salads. No wonder he looked so fit.
“Did you always know what you wanted to do?” she asked.
Romancing the Holidays: Twelve Christmas Romances - Benefits Breast Cancer Research Page 54